


That's right dude meet me at the bleachers

by letsprayitwritesitself



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: dont smoke weed its illegal at least where i'm from, if it isnt where ur from go nuts i dont care, there's weed in this story kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsprayitwritesitself/pseuds/letsprayitwritesitself
Summary: Sprace high school AU feat. smoking weed under the bleachers and falling in love aaah. For a prompt on the tumblr.





	That's right dude meet me at the bleachers

Week One

Twelve minutes into study hall on the first day at his new school, Spot found his place. It was under the bleachers on the football field, where the sun shone through in thin lines onto the grass, and it was actually almost silent. Both surprised and grateful that it was empty, he dropped his backpack on the ground and sat down, laying back slowly until he was flat, and taking a second to breathe out all the tension he’d managed to accumulate through the day.

He just needed to get through the rest of this year. That was it. It was only four months, because he’d managed to get kicked out of his own school the semester before graduation. Not like he was particularly attached to his old school, but at least it was what he knew. Now he was surrounded by strangers, teachers who kept trying to get him _involved,_ a new timetable to get used to, corridors like mazes - he had been over this whole thing before he’d even walked through the doors. As far as he was concerned, he needed to get through the coming weeks as quietly as possible, and if that meant spending all his free time here, then that was just fine.

‘Oh.’

Spot sighed, keeping his eyes shut, pretending he was still alone. He should have known this place was too good to be private. He didn’t want to share, but then, he had only been here five seconds. This could be someone else’s turf.

‘Hello?’ The voice continued, a little louder. Spot opened his eyes to see a boy standing over him. He glared up.

‘What?’

‘”What?” I thought you were a dead body! Jeez!’ He took a few steps away, still eyeing Spot. Spot sat up, sheepish but defensive.

‘I thought I’d found a quiet place. Apparently I was wrong.’

‘It normally is quiet, brainbox.’ The kid sat down and started rummaging through his backpack. As much as Spot now wanted to leave, he wanted to stay. He felt unwelcome and he really wanted to be alone - but the fact that this kid had suggested he didn’t want him here made him want to be an asshole and keep him company. He dug his copy of Twelfth Night out of his bag and opened it, hoping that the hour would pass fast.

It was about three minutes before he was completely distracted. It wasn’t the intriguing click of the lighter or the long satisfied sigh that the other kid let out, but the smell of the weed that tore him away from Shakespeare. He glanced over. The boy was lying in the grass, propped up on his elbows, staring up at the sky through the bleachers.

‘Such a fucking cliche,’ Spot muttered, staring at him for the few seconds it took the kid to look back. Dark hair pushed off his face, big sweatshirt, self-satisfied smirk. When he looked at Spot he gave back as good as he got, staring him down, eyebrows raised. 

‘Guessing you don’t want any, then?’

‘… Didn’t say that.’ Spot discarded his book to the side. He didn’t realise he wanted weed until it was there in front of him. He leaned over, stretching his arm out for the joint. The kid started to pass it, then retracted his hand with a grin. 

‘Nah.’

Spot stilled with a glare. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Changed my mind.’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Ask nicely.’

Spot deadpanned. He really, really wanted the weed now. ‘Asshole.’ He retreated, picking his book back up.

‘You got a name?’

His instinct was to ignore him. He stared at his page - there were definitely words on there, but he couldn’t pick them out.

‘C’mon.’ The kid persisted.

‘Yeah, I got a name.’

‘Alls I wanted to know. I’ll give ya a toke if you tell me.’

Spot glanced up at him. ‘Spot.’

‘Spot?’

‘That’s what they call me.’

‘Who’s _they?’_

‘Just they.’ He watched as the kid appraised the name before moving over to hand Spot the joint.

‘I’m Race,’ he said, like Spot was still listening.

Deep inhale. ‘Didn’t ask.’ Exhale.

‘You’re a charmer. This your first day here?’

‘Do I get another toke if I answer?’

‘Sure.’

‘Yeah. Just transferred.’

‘Little late, ain’t it?’

‘I know. But they didn’t want me there. So.’ He took another toke for answering that third question, before passing it back. Oh man. Even if it came with this chatterbox a joint of weed miraculously appearing before him had to be one of the best outcomes of the day.

‘What’d you do?’

‘I beat up a kid for asking too many questions.’

‘Ha ha. Forget it.’

 

Week Two

It turned out that Race only smoked weed under the bleachers on Fridays or really terrible Mondays, which is what the week before had been. So when Spot had gone down to the field the next day, expecting to see him there, he was - not _disappointed,_ but…

At least it meant he got some reading done. And the same on Wednesday and Thursday, making him wonder if he’d made Race up in his head or something.

Then Friday came and Race had beat him there, which, as much as he was starting to think of this place as _his_ and everyone else could _fuck off,_ he didn’t completely hate. Race had actually readily handed over the joint when he sparked it. They didn’t talk or anything as major as that, but companionable silence was almost as good as actual alone time.

It was the Friday after, when Race threw his backpack on the ground and sat down with a theatrical huff that they next actually spoke. Spot peeked over the top of his textbook to see Race covering his face with his hands, taking a deep breath in and out.

‘What’s up your ass?’ He only asked because he wanted Race to hurry up with the weed, honest. 

‘Huh?’

‘What’s… Up… Your… Ass?’

‘Fuckin’… Assholes are up my ass.’

‘Oh. Shit.’

‘This TA saw me at Pride. Months ago.’ He uncovered his face and glared at Spot. ‘Tried to like, whatever, with me. I say no, next thing I know he’s in my Spanish class trying to make me look like a _soplagaitas_ every day.’

Spot had blacked out after Race said _Pride._ Not physically, of course, but mentally. Emotionally. He’d been there too.

‘Sounds like an asshole.’

‘To put it politely.’

‘You got the power, though.’ Spot had been in that situation. Men being assholes because they didn’t get what they wanted. ‘He knows it.’

‘Sure don’t feel like it.’ He finally grabbed his backpack and rummaged through it. ‘Still. Only four months till we blow this joint.’ He pulled the weed out and held it up with a grin. ‘Get it? Joint?’ A smile appeared on Spot’s face before he could stop it. He closed his textbook and shifted a little closer to Race.

 

Week Three

He was late. Not that they had, like, a start time or anything - but. He’d gotten distracted flipping through an old periodical in the library and before he knew it twenty minutes of the period had passed and he was standing in the stacks like an asshole instead of meeting Race.

As he power-walked across the football field he started to dissect this urgency - why did it feel like he was standing Race up? Could you stand someone up to something like this? Why was he so keen to get  there? _Don’t go there, Spot, do not go there -_

Jesus. He liked hanging out with Race, okay? What was so wrong with that? Kid was funny when he wanted to be. And he had weed! And he was gay. And his smile made Spot smile.

But it was definitely mostly about the weed.

As he crossed the field he was surprised to see a figure heading away from the bleachers. It stopped as he neared. Race.

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to study hall?’

‘Was starting to think you had somewhere better to be!’

‘You’re saying you wouldn’t have stayed here by yourself?’

‘I just.’ Race shuffled on the spot. Glanced down. Back up. ‘Got shit to do! Can’t stay here all day.’

Spot eyed him suspiciously. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’ A moment of heavy silence hung between them. 

‘Well, since you’re here.’ Race took a couple of steps backwards towards the bleachers and Spot followed. They walked the last few yards side by side. It felt different. Again, Spot started to take apart everything that had just happened in his head. Race, suggesting that he had other stuff to do, and yet staying here with Spot instead. Leaving when he thought Spot wasn’t coming. And himself, challenging Race to leave anyway, hypothesising that Race’s decision to hang out with him could be the result of… something.

That’s where the thought process got a little fuzzy.

He sat down next to Race and watched as he lit the joint, took a long toke, breathed it out into the air above them. He passed it to Spot, hand brushing his just enough to count, and Spot wondered what he had to lose by challenging Race again.

He took a puff, enjoyed it, and exhaled, trying to decide his next move. Remembering the first week, he made to pass the joint back to Race, and at the last second drew his hand back slowly. Race’s hand followed, his gaze moving to Spot’s face. They stared at each other steadily for the next few seconds, Spot moving the joint further away, Race still following with his hand, until he had to lean forward to try and take it. He was taking the bait.

There was only so far Spot could stretch his arm behind him so he rested it in the grass, joint fizzling out forgotten in the dew, and Race’s hand hovered uncertainly in the air as he paused, his face inches from Spot’s. Spot waited, angling his face upwards.

‘Take it.’

Race dove forwards, crashing his lips into Spot’s, and Spot moaned, ecstatic his game had played out exactly right. He wasted no time in letting his mouth fall open so Race could put his tongue to a good use that wasn’t talking shit, and fisted a hand in Race’s hair, holding his head in place. He leaned back, stretching out his legs so Race could climb on top of him and press him into the grass, kissing him like he’d been waiting all his life for it instead of max three weeks, and the joint lay abandoned, pushed down the agenda by a different kind of high.

 

Week 4

Monday wasn’t a terrible Monday but still Race showed up. Both had endured a weekend of torturously exciting flashbacks to their heavy session that Friday, the two days stretching on and on so they were both mad when they met up, unspoken as always but definitely on purpose.

Stubborn assholes they both were, they tried to urge the other into making the first move. Race arrived after Spot and sat down opposite him, kneeling directly before him and plucking his paperback from his hands, tossing it aside and leaning into Spot’s personal space.

‘I was reading that.’

‘I know. Now you’re not.’

‘Clearly.’

‘I don’t have any weed. You’ve been smoking me out of all my wages.’

‘I’ve had like five puffs, you jackass.’ Spot smirked up at him. 

‘Still five more than I wanted to share.’ He placed his hands on Spot’s knees. ‘I’ve been pretty generous.’ 

Spot started toying with the front of Race’s sweater. ‘I can always pay you back.’

‘Oh yeah? How’s that?’

‘I’ll figure something out.’ He used the sweater to pull Race to him.

Tuesday: See above.

Wednesday: See above.

On Thursday Race pulled away just enough to talk into Spot’s lips.

‘What you doing for lunch?’

Spot paused to gather his thoughts. Race was talking about lunch instead of kissing him, and that was wrong. ‘Library. Same s’always.’

‘Come sit with me. Me and my friends.’

Now Spot pulled away. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Not talking about anything. Just being friendly.’

He slipped his fingers into Race’s belt loops and tugged. ‘Friendly?’

Race gulped and nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Sure. I’ll come.’

And then on Friday - not that they would tell anyone - they started to consider themselves maybe-sort-of-ish-but-not-really… _official,_ but fuck you for asking and fuck you for thinking about it it’s none of your god damn business go away. Luckily their time alone was worth the teasing grins of Race’s (and Spots, he guessed) friends, and the space beneath the bleachers changed into a haven of exciting affection without pretence, words whispered despite notable absence of company, and just Spot and just Race, not wishing the days away anymore.


End file.
